The Zen of Stairs

Stairs wind up the riverbank.
Spinelike, a living thing,
surrounded by green,
a path from there to here.

Uneven. Rough,
one or two are washed out
by a river run wild, fueled by storms
and winter thaws.

Yet they endure, rugged, broken, functional,
a battered journey between,
their beauty too often missed
in the desire to arrive.

About this poem

I’ve made the mistake too often. No longer.

The picture was taken just north of Brattleboro, VT.

Tom